


Until such time as those words are truth

by Ryxl



Series: Tariverse [5]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Unrequited Love, he's letting her win, yes she's being unfair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryxl/pseuds/Ryxl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But until such time as those words are truth, I will continue to flatter you.” That's what Varian had said at the Argent Tournament; two months later, Taretha learns exactly what Varian's parting shot meant when he sends her an invitation to Stormwind, where she will be granted lands and title that had been Blackmoore's. Assuming, of course, that she accepts...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invitation

 

The elaborate parchment nearly slips from my fingers before my hands curl into fists, threatening to tear the sheet. Behind me, Thrall rises from his throne to loom menacingly - and to read over my shoulder, although the pale, trembling man bearing Stormwind's colors doesn't need to know that.

"He actually expects me to..." I stumble to a verbal halt. Once the words are out of my mouth, I realize that what I was afraid was going to be panic is, in fact, rage.

"Lady Proudmoore's personal vessel is waiting to transport you to Theramore, where his Majesty's ship is docked." The liveried flunky seems pretty unhappy to be delivering the message, but being glared at by an eight-foot orc puts a damper on even the most cheerful news.

"Tari?"

"Does he actually think he can just...just..."

Thrall takes the sheet from my hands while I'm distracted and scans it quickly. "What brought this on?" he asks in orcish.

My fingers flick dismissively. "I told him once that I wasn't actually a lady. He seemed unhappy about that." The flunky looks lost at our exchange; he must not speak any orcish.

"Could that have something to do with the way you said it?"

"I used the old saying 'good enough to bed, not good enough to wed'."

"Well, that would explain this."

I stare at him, aghast. "You can't mean..."

"I don't think that's what this is, but I would take it as a sign that he is still dedicated to changing your mind." He hands the sheet back to me. "At the least, this can be seen as an attempt to make amends."

"You think I should accept."

"Whether you should accept or refuse is not something I can decide for you. But whichever you choose, I think you should give him the courtesy of doing so in person."

I turn back to Varian's messenger and return to my native tongue. "Did he pick you specifically to deliver this message?"

He looks startled to be addressed so sharply. "Yes, my lady."

"What did he tell you?"

Scared eyes flicker to Thrall and back to me. He licks his lips. "That you wouldn't be happy about this. That you might refuse. And that if you did refuse, to say 'Truth is never flattery, but flattery can become truth'. And that..." The messenger swallows, hard. "He says...please."

In that one hesitant word, I hear the echo of his master's voice and see the memory of surprisingly vulnerable eyes. Curse him for being able to placate me like that, even when he's not actually present.

"Golthak. Ten men. We leave in two hours." The messenger looks confused at my harsh orcish, but my faithful shadow bangs his chest in salute. "You may tell Jaina's men that we will depart in two hours' time," I tell him shortly in common, then sweep out of the room to pack.

===========

The zeppelin ride is relatively calm and peaceful for everyone except Varian's mouthpiece, whose name is Joric. It could be that Joric simply doesn't fly well, but his discomfort is more likely caused by the collectively stony faces of eleven big, burly orcs who all know how I feel about human men. The men and women of Theramore simply go about their business with brisk efficiency and ignore the lot of us.

Jaina is waiting at the parapet on top of the tower when the zeppelin rocks to a halt, straining against its ropes, and beside her is a blond boy of about twelve or thirteen. Whether it is still youth or an indication of his future stature, he is slender and almost willowy with a serious expression and eyes older than his years. He is also draped in an elaborate surcoat with the lion of Stormwind worked on it in gold thread.

"Taretha," Jaina says cautiously as I pick my way down the gangplank, "This is Anduin Wrynn, prince of Stormwind. He will be your host during the trip."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Foxton," he says in a voice that hasn't broken yet. The bow he sketches is very precise.

"The pleasure is mine, your Highness," I say with an equally precise curtsy, eyes asking Jaina a silent question. She shrugs slightly.

"We have time for dinner before the tide turns," she says. "If would both follow me...?"

Dinner is a pleasant enough affair; just the three of us, and polite small talk regarding the state of world affairs. Anduin is surprisingly knowledgeable for one so young, and it's clear that while his father was missing, he was more than a figurehead. He doesn't seem to have inherited any of Varian, save perhaps the cunning mind. I can't help but wonder what kind of woman his mother was, or what kind of king he will be when he is older.

It doesn't take long for everyone to settle on the ship after dinner. Her name is _Mercy's Vengeance_ , a coincidence that does not escape me. Rooms have been prepared for myself and my shadow in the royal suite; Varian has planned this well, to have accounted for Golthak's near-constant presence. As we get underway, I drift out into the sitting room and find Anduin, in a simple tunic and leggings, curled up in one of the chairs reading. He smiles as I enter, proving that he has inherited his father's charm as well as his cunning.

"I was hoping you would join me, Miss Foxton," he says as he straightens in the chair. "My father speaks very highly of you."

I can't prevent my eyebrows from rising in mild surprise as I take a seat of my own. "Does he now?"

Anduin nods. "Oh yes. He says you're a force to be reckoned with, and that if you were as deft with a sword and dagger as you are with your tongue and wit, you would probably be more deadly in a fight than him." The boy grins mischievously. "He also says if he had blades as sharp as your tongue and wit, he could slice a hole in the air straight through to the Twisting Nether, and that you can flay a man in less time than it takes to peel an apple, and leave him just as naked."

My eyebrows climb higher. "And that is speaking highly of me?"

"My father greatly admires the strength of your spirit. He says no one's dared to speak to him like that since my mother died, and once, he admitted that you were right and he wished more people would have the courage to tell him when he's getting carried away."

I turn to watch Theramore recede in the gathering dusk. "Why is he doing this?"

"Which part?"

"All of it."

The impish smile has returned when I face the prince again. "He said you might ask that."

"Oh? And what is the answer, then?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you, for the same reason that you wouldn't play Hawks and Hares with him."

"Let me ask this, then. What do you think about what he’s doing?"

The smile this time is more mysterious. "I play Hawks and Hares, too, Miss Foxton."

"Well played, your Highness," I laugh. "Well played indeed."

"If I call you Taretha, will you call me Anduin?"

"Yes, but I won't play with you, either."

Now it's his turn to laugh. He slips a ribbon into his book and sets it aside. "Taretha, will you tell me what it's like living with orcs? Father refuses to talk about it, but..." For a moment, he looks his age. "Understanding is the key to peace, and fighting between Horde and Alliance doesn't help anyone but our mutual enemies. I wish I could get Father to see that."

"What would you like to know, Anduin?"

"What was it like, turning away from everything you'd known?"

His eager expression reminds me of the Frostwolf younglings begging for a story, and I smile. This may have been a gambit to lure me off-guard, but the boy is right. I'll take a short-term defeat in exchange for a long-term victory.


	2. Arrival

The captain informs us that it will be close to midnight when we dock in Stormwind's harbor, and asks if we would prefer spending the night aboard the ship or going up to the castle immediately. The harbor is lighted enough, he says, that a night docking isn't dangerous. Anduin decides that it would be best to move us all inside the keep's walls with a minimum of fuss, and thus it is that in the first hour of the day, we pull into Stormwind Harbor after a week at sea. The crew swarm around the ship getting her docked, then a sharp whistle pierces the air and the lights are extinguished, leaving us in the intermittent illumination of the lighthouse. Half a dozen of Anduin's guards disembark first to sweep the docks for any dangers, followed by another six. Anduin and Golthak and I are next, with my guards clustered on the deck waiting to follow.

Given the darkness of the dock and the twelve Royal Guard who had preceded us, I am understandably startled when a figure in a dark, hooded cloak suddenly lunges out of a pool of shadow towards Anduin. The assailant must not have seen me, or my looming protector. I lunge just as quickly, using his momentum against him as I grab a fistful of cloak and jerk him around with my left hand, even as my right speeds out of the night to land, open-palmed, against his bare cheek as the hood falls back.

Varian looks at me in shock and I stare back at him, equally stunned.

"Taretha!" he exclaims, ugly face splitting into a broad grin. "You came!"

His obvious delight does nothing to ease my taut nerves, and in fact makes me angrier. I slap him again, this time with my left hand, which had been held in rigid anticipation of smashing into his nose. "How _dare_ you?" I hiss, seething. "How _dare_ you make me think you're some low-life wharf rat attacking your own son! What kind of _gentleman_ skulks around after midnight and lunges out at young boys? What kind of _king_ leaves his keep at night, without guards?"

I'm fairly vibrating with fury, and he looks to be in shock again, but the aborted outrage softens into an odd sort of relaxed amusement. "It's good to see you, too," he says dryly. "May I escort you to Stormwind Keep? It's a lovely night for a stroll."

"Do I have a choice?"

"In this instance, not particularly."

He raises one hand and gestures, and the twelve guards move back out of the shadows and into formation with the other twelve, who have disembarked along with Golthak's men while I was berating their king. While the troops are getting into position, Varian drops to one knee and gives Anduin the tight, fierce hug my assault had delayed.

"Let's move out, men," he calls in a no-nonsense voice as he stands up.

The column marches through the silent streets up to the gates of the keep. I am equally silent, still fuming, and my escort says nothing, but Anduin and his father chat in low voices about the trip. This is a side of Varian I haven't seen: calm, happy, affectionate. It's clear that he loves his son. Knowing him, however, he had to have planned this, as well. So, he thinks he can lure me into letting my guard down by being a loving father to his son? No, he's too cunning for a ploy this simple, and he knows it will take more than that for him to worm his way into my good graces. At least, I hope this is a ploy. I don't want to believe that this is a genuine display with no ulterior motive, a tactical surrender. I maintain my stony silence as we march through the castle, as Anduin hugs his father and runs off to his rooms, as I am shown to my rooms. A small barracks for my escort is part of it, which tells me this is an ambassador's suite. At the door to my sitting room, he pauses.

"Was there something else, your Majesty?" I ask coldly.

He ignores the barb, a thoughtful look on his scarred face. "Why did you slap me?" Two rough fingers gently probe the red mark on one cheek, and he winces. "What I mean is: why didn't you clock me one?"

My smile is brittle. "I'm just a woman, your Majesty. I hit like a girl."

He frowns; my venom must have gotten through at last. "I think I liked it better when you used 'my lord' as an insult."

"Apologies, _my lord_. It is my duty to respect the wishes of my gracious host while I am a guest."

"I guess that's better," he says sourly. "Now, don't expect me to believe that you didn't punch me out of a lack of strength, because I got a taste of exactly how strong you are." He touches his left cheek and hisses slightly. "What would you have done if I had been someone else?"

Instead of answering, I raise my left hand and slowly extend it, heel-first, fingers held rigidly out of the way, towards the battered shape of his nose. When his eyes widen in recognition, I let the hand fall to my side again before he gets any ideas.

"My lady, I am very glad that my hood fell back and I most sincerely apologize for my rash actions. You have my word, I will _not_ do that again."

Again I favor him with a brittle smile and sharply mocking tone. "You forget, my lord, that I am not a lady."

"Not for long, I hope," he says quietly, and somehow that vulnerable look is back in his eyes.

"If you will excuse me, _my lord_ , it has been a long and tiring day, and I wish to retire for what remains of the night." I ignore the hurt expression on his face at my chilly tone.

"Of course. My apologies for keeping you from your rest. Sleep well, Taretha."

And with that he sweeps me a formal bow, turns, and strides briskly off.


	3. Anticipation

Dawn comes far too soon, and habit has me out of bed and wrapped in a dressing gown within minutes. I had expected to not be bothered until at least the second or third hour after sunrise, but there is a plate of sliced fruit waiting for me in the sitting room. Judging from the still-white flesh of the apples, it has not been waiting long. A note tucked half under the plate reads 'It was a late night; I'm going back to bed for a few hours. I hope you'll join Anduin and me for lunch. -V'

I must admit, it's flattering that he remembered, but at the same time I can almost hear the spectral echoes of hounds closing in on their quarry. If I accept this invitation, I put myself in the position of not maintaining my social defenses against a man I have no desire to like, much less allow to be friendly with me, for the sake of the good rapport I've established with his son during the week-long voyage.

The apple slices crunch with satisfying volume as I force my breathing to slow. This is not a trap. Varian is not going to disarm me with kindness, then overpower me and take what all men want, as Blackmoore did. Anduin is well aware that I verbally flay his father. The peaches are delightfully tart; we don't get them often in Durotar. The boy is intelligent enough to not jump to conclusions, at least, and he did witness my unorthodox greeting last night. The lack of outrage Varian displayed should be enough to cue his son in as to how our normal interactions go.

Melon, too, is a rare enough treat and the sweet flesh practically melts in my mouth. As a peace offering goes, this is deceptively simple and devastatingly effective. I think I could almost tolerate the brute for this. By the time the last slices have been devoured, I am reconsidering being awake. Sleeping for another few hours is beginning to sound very reasonable indeed, and I have about convinced myself that _not_ tearing Varian into strips with my tongue in front of Anduin would be a show of weakness. A writing desk provides me with quill and ink, and the note is tucked back beneath the empty plate with 'well played' scrawled on the bottom of the sheet.

===========

Three or four hours later, I again emerge from my bedroom to find a pair of maidservants waiting for me.

"Good morning, Miss Foxton," they chorus cheerfully, and their accents speak of the hills of Alterac. Close enough to be familiar, but not the peculiar Alterac-Arathi-Lordaeron accent of Hillsbrad.

"King Varian has assigned us to you for as long as you want us," one of them says. "We're to be your maids."

"He left a note for you, there on the table." The other one points.

_Taretha-_

_I look forward to your lively wit at lunch._

_We will dine at mid-day._

_-V_

 

Well, that could be either an invitation to unsheathe my tongue, or a plea to not skewer him _too_ badly in front of his son.

"What time is it?"

"Hour and a quarter before mid-day, Miss Foxton," the first one says with a curtsy.

"I dine with the king in an hour and a quarter."

"I'll draw you a bath," the first one chirps, while the second one squeals.

"What will you be wearing, Miss Foxton?" she asks as the first vanishes into the room that must hold the tub.

I lead the second girl into my bedroom and sort through my trunk. Clothing is as much a weapon as mere body covering, and I want to make a statement with mine. It is clear that Varian has, with the exception of his own words, made an effort to ensure that my lack of rank is expressed properly. Between that and the lack of hostility last night, I am coming perilously close to feeling a small amount of kindness towards him. My attire, then, should reflect that I am deeply rooted and immovable. The dresses from Theramore are set aside, and I bring out the solid, robe-like dress the tauren sewed for me a few years back. The girl's eyes widen as they take in the feathers, beads, and bits of carved wood that adorn it.

"I will be wearing this." She blinks as I hand her the garment. It's not light. "There are matching boots in the smaller trunk," I say, already moving to the third for the hawk feathers and beaded leather ties that will be braided into my hair. The enameled Frostwolf pendant, as big around as my fist and hanging on its massive copper chain, completes the ensemble.

"Very good, Miss Foxton," she says with the slightest hint of nervousness in her voice.

The first girl pokes her head into the room and announces that my bath has been drawn. I wash with all the mindfulness of a tauren warrior ritually cleansing himself before a vision quest, and dress as though donning armor. This room comes furnished with a variety of cosmetics, but I wave them off. One cream is scented with juniper, and I rub it into my skin as though it were aromatic war paint. The two braids that fall from my temples are adorned with the smaller leather thongs studded with polished wooden beads; the rest of my hair sports hawk feathers and heavier, clay beads that click against each other at the tail of the braid that restrains my waist-length hair. The pendant on its chain is a comforting weight, like an enameled breastplate protecting my heart with more than its bulk.

There is a knock at the door as I finish lacing up the soft leather boots, and Golthak peers inside. The two maids go still and silent.

"Servant here to take you to the king," he says shortly in orcish. Then he grins. "You're not going to lunch, you're going to war."

"Just reminding him that pretty words and melon slices won't buy my favor," I reply in the same language, then switch to common. "Send him in."

The unfortunate Joric edges nervously past my guardian and bows low. "Miss Foxton, his Majesty King Varian requests the delight of your company for lunch. If you would...?"

Chin raised, eyes steely, I follow Joric to lunch.


	4. Impasse

To my surprise, Joric leads me to a sort of balcony courtyard where a table and three chairs have been set up. Past the parapet, Stormwind spreads out in all its glory. Joric beats a hasty retreat while I am distracted and I drift away from the doorway, leaving Golthak and the two Kor'kron Elites to arrange themselves as they wish. The rhythmic sounds of plate armor inform me that I will soon have company, but I am caught up in watching the city.

"Lovely view, isn't it?"

Varian's voice at my elbow births panic. I whirl, one arm out in a half-formed gesture of either attack or defense, but his browned hand is suddenly around my wrist, painfully tight, and there is nothing of gentleness or mercy in his expression. A scream dies of fear in my throat, my bones turning to water even as my blood turns to ice. In a heartbeat, the warrior formerly known as Lo'gosh drops my wrist as though burned and backs up several steps, both hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

"Back away from her," Golthak barks in orcish. "Further. Further. Turn your back. Do not speak common."

Amazingly, Varian obeys the angry commands. He retreats almost to the door and turns to face my faithful shadow. "What I did?" he demands in broken orcish.

"He used to beat her. No, don't look. Give her time to calm down."

I can see those browned hands clench into angry fists, see the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders tense and tremble with suppressed fury beneath the blue doublet. Already, the calm of surrender flows from my dry eyes down my tight throat, leaving me numb and empty in the wake of terror. When the last bits of visceral fear have been smothered beneath emotional ice, I nod.

"Now you can look and speak," Golthak growls.

At first, Varian does not move. Head bowed, he seems to be struggling with himself. When he does turn, his hands are held open and away from his body and he advances slowly, eyes begging for my forgiveness. "Taretha, I'm sorry." His thick, unruly hair flutters in the breeze, a few errant strands glowing like burnished copper in the sun. "I should have known better than to startle you like that." He stops just out of reach, leaving me plenty of room to either side should I try to flee. "If you would rather eat alone after that, I'll understand."

Beneath his tan, the places where I struck him are still faintly discolored. Languidly, I take a step forward and brush his cheek lightly. He inhales sharply and flinches, but otherwise does not move.

"I believe this round is a tie, my lord." There is no inflection in my voice.

"No," he says shakily. Blue eyes bleed apology. "I forfeit."

Later, when the defensive detachment wears off, I will be able to appreciate the vulnerability he is displaying - and the power over him that he has just revealed I possess. The sound of more guards approaching, however, effectively breaks the tension in the air.

"Father?"

"Anduin."

Eyes still on me, he backs up a few paces before turning and sweeping his son into a fierce hug. While they are occupied, I seat myself at the table, choosing the seat that gives me a view of both the door and the city. Anduin gives me a curious look over his father's shoulder, but says nothing. When Varian has gotten himself under control again, they take their seats at the table and this seems to be the signal for lunch to be served.

If not for the presentation, it would be a very simple meal: roast chicken and bread, fresh lettuce and bell peppers and sharp yellow cheese. However, the chicken is game hens; the bread is rolls shaped like ducks floating on a lettuce pond with green pepper lily pads and red pepper flowers. The cheese, sliced into thin sticks, has been arranged into a nest on the 'shore' for the 'ducks'. When the servant bearing a bottle of wine approaches the table, Varian frantically waves him away, then looks at me with ill-concealed panic. With the reminder of Blackmoore's attentions fresh in his mind, it seems he would prefer to avoid any further comparison.

"That's a neat dress, Taretha," Anduin says after the last servant has left. "Are those feathers in your hair?"

With no signs of danger, the protective numbness begins thawing. "Tail feathers of a hawk. The Runetotem tribe made the dress for me."

"Tauren."

At the half-question, I glance at Varian but his eyes are firmly on the bread-duck he is holding. "Yes, tauren. When the Horde first landed on Kalimdor, the tauren people provided us all with cloth or clothing."

The duck loses its crusty head.

"Something wrong, Varian?"

The look he gives me is indecipherable. I can tell that words are swarming inside him, but he clenches his jaw and none of them come out. He looks at the decapitated roll as though unaware that he had mangled it, and drops it on his plate.

"Just disappointed in myself." With a visible effort, he forces the churning emotions from his expression. "You look lovely in that. Very fierce."

My lips form a smile I do not feel. "Thank you, my lord."

For a moment, he looks about to strike the table in frustration, and then he puts on an equally false smile. "I trust you slept well, my lady?"

"I thought we'd been over that point, _my lord_."

The slight edge to my tone brings a hint of genuine amusement to his eyes. "You still haven't given me your answer on that, you know."

"I have some reservations about accepting a gift that will tie me so tightly to the enemy."

He frowns. "You're not my enemy."

"Maybe not, my lord, but you have made yourself the enemy of my brother. I will not forswear the ties of blood."

Anduin watches silently as his father draws me neatly out of my shell of indifference.

"You forswore your ties to the race that birthed you," Varian points out with the slightest hint of a growl.

I smile sweetly, but my voice has gained an edge. "Need I remind you of what humanity gifted me with, my lord?"

"Damn it, woman, I-" he breaks off and shoves himself away from the table abruptly, pacing to the parapet where he stands with his hands on the stone, glaring down at the oblivious city. After a minute or two, he comes back and calmly takes his seat again. "I'm trying to right the wrongs committed against you, but you're not making it very easy," he says quietly.

"Have you given me a reason to?"

He gapes at me.

"Why should I forgive the race that displayed so much cruelty to me, and to the race of my clan? Just because you feel bad about it? If that is the case, _my lord_ , I have to wonder what course of action you would take, were I to roll over and let you have your way with me." I stab a red-pepper-flower with more force than is absolutely necessary. "You wish to make amends to me, specifically, and I can't help but ask myself why that is. Is it because I am human? Is it because I am a woman?" The petals of the flower are broken off one by one while I pin him with my glare. "Is it because you are attracted to me?"

The look of hurt pride tells me all I need to know.

"Is my brother not worthy of reparations because he is an orc? Because he is male? Because you do not look at him and think 'there is someone that I feel needs my protection'? Why is it that you feel you are entitled to declare war on a race who went out of its way to leave humanity alone? What entitles you to wave your brief enslavement under our noses and ignore the fact that the vast majority of the orcish race has endured more _years_ of slavery than you did _months_?"

Anduin cringes and mouths 'ouch'. Varian stares at me stoically, jaw set, as though I were pummeling him with my fists rather than my words.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Taretha," he says, and he sounds torn between hopeless resignation and genuine relief. "I beg you, let's discuss what can be done to make this gift more suitable. I would not want you to feel that accepting will tie you to me against your will."

"Maybe take out the oath of fealty, Father?"

Hearing Anduin's voice breaks the tension between Varian and myself, and I nibble on the mutilated flower whose petals adorn my plate. The king blinks as though such a thing hadn't even occurred to him.

"Of course," he agrees. "In fact, why don't we just make the land a sovereign nation? It's not like there's any Alliance presence in the area strong enough to enforce anything, and the tax revenues haven't been counted in any budget for ten years."

"I have a better idea."

Varian looks at me expectantly, hints of delight at my lack of hostility gleaming in his eyes.

"Which parts of Alterac are unclaimed?"


	5. Empathy

"...so we separate the titles from the lands of Durnholde and Alterac Valley. Durnholde reverts to the crown of Lordaeron, which effectively leaves it unclaimed and unowned. The title that went to Alterac Valley dies with the last of its line, and the land is declared a sovereign nation belonging to the Frostwolf Clan."

"And the dwarves have agreed to leave?"

The smile Varian gives me doesn't make him any more handsome, despite being genuinely pleased. "There's plenty of unclaimed land in Alterac. They won't be going far."

"Amazing what solutions can be thought up, when reaching for a sword isn't the first thought that comes to mind."

He inclines his head in rueful acknowledgment of the point. "So, the Frostwolf Clan gets the land that is theirs by right of inhabitance, and you..."

I wish he wouldn't look at me with such adoration.

"You will join the nobility of Lordaeron, which brings with it absolutely no responsibility to Stormwind. As you have no lands, and the royal house of Menethil has fallen, you will have no responsibilities to the kingdom of Lordaeron, either. In effect, the only right this will bestow on you is the right to be called 'Lady'."

"Quite a bit of effort for so little reward, my lord."

He doesn't flinch at my sharp tone. "Little to anyone else, maybe. It will be more than worth the effort to be able to call you 'my lady' and know that it's not flattery."

"And how do your allies feel about this?"

Varian has the grace to look abashed. "They were less happy about it until your suggestion. Ending a longstanding drain on men and resources by shuffling a few papers is no small feat." He takes a deep breath. "Taretha...about yesterday. That was inexcusable of me. I understand that it likely ruined my chances of ever convincing you that I'm not Blackmoore, but I'm not giving up."

I don't even need the memory of his remorse; his eyes once again bleed apology and I know that if I cared to, I could wound him deeply with a sharp glance or harsh word. If I did that, however, I would be punishing him for the crime of not giving me justification for lashing out at him. Be merciful in your victory, he once begged. If I were to hurt him in this moment, I would be no better than what I deride him for.

"You apologized," I say quietly. "You feel remorse. That's more than he ever did."

The surprised gratitude on his scarred face makes me feel uncomfortable with the sudden air of emotional intimacy.

"I would ask what else I can do to not be like him, but I get the feeling I'd be pushing my luck," he says cautiously.

"Asking for hints is unbefitting of a cunning strategist, my lord," I say lightly, the slightest hint of a chill in my voice. Instead of returning to our usual verbal fencing, however, he looks pensive.

"I would rather forfeit every battle, and my pride, than see you look at me like that again." Although his eyes aren't painfully vulnerable, he is still dead serious. "I don't want to be the man you saw me as."

"Then don't be."

Although he is the one talking about forfeit, I am the one who quits the field of battle. He looks astonished as I gather my skirts and sweep out of the room, Golthak and the Elites falling into step behind me as I try to put some distance between myself and my tangled emotions. Instead of returning to my suite, I get directions from one of the Royal Guard and make my way to the library. To my surprise, the library is a series of very secure rooms fanning out from a small courtyard in the center. There's even a decently-sized apple tree in a square patch of grass bordered by low stone walls the right height for sitting and reading, as evidenced by the blonde head peering at me from over a book.

"Taretha! I thought you were with my father."

The Elites and Golthak join Anduin's guards against the wall and I join the prince by the tree. "I was. We concluded our discussion, and I decided to see the library."

The boy gazes at me with eyes as serious as his father's. "Do you hate him?"

For a moment, all I can do is stare in shock. Do I?

"I...don't know."

"Why not?"

My fingers nervously plucking at my skirts are suddenly fascinating. "I suffered some very bad things at the hands of a cruel man. Although he's been dead for a few years, it still colors the way I see most human men."

"He did something yesterday, didn't he?"

"It was a misunderstanding."

"But it still hurts." When I do not answer, he puts one hand on mine. "I never knew my mother. She died when I was just a baby. Lady Prestor was the closest thing to a mother I had, especially when Father disappeared." His hand trembles slightly. "And all the time, she was the black dragon Onyxia, working to destroy Stormwind from the inside."

I can hear his breath hitch, and I take his hand in mine.

"I know that not every lady with dark hair is Onyxia, but I can't help thinking that they're going to do something horrible to me."

Anduin chokes back a sob, and I turn to pull him into a hug. While he cries, I stroke his hair. It's a brighter yellow than mine, more like corn than the honey that mine resembles, but just as fine.

"I've never told anyone that, not even my father," he says at last, his breath still shaky. "Until you said...I didn't know that anyone else would understand."

"No, no, no, I understand."

For several minutes we sit like that, comforting and being comforted, until his breathing has calmed and he pulls away with more than a hint of self-consciousness.

"I wish you could stay forever," he says wistfully. "We've got tons of great books, and you make my father stop and think, and you _understand_."

"Well, I make no promises, but how about you show me some of those great books and we'll see if they tempt me."

He laughs at my teasing tone, and smiles, and I smile back.


	6. Accord

“You and Anduin seemed to hit it off,” Varian says once the last servant has left courtyard that overlooks the city.

“He’s a fine boy.” The sunset is magnificent, in contrast with my host’s appearance.

“Ever since Onyxia, he has avoided the fairer half of the nobility, but you…you he likes.”

I turn to face him, raking him with a scathing look. “Has it never occurred to you, _my lord_ , that those events might have left a scar in his heart and on his mind?”

He blinks in utter surprise. “But she’s-“ he swallows as my gaze turns icy.

“So is Blackmoore.”

Silence reigns at the small table and I apply myself to what is no doubt excellent food. Unfortunately, I am unable to appreciate the artistry of the castle’s cooks.

“What do you think of the library? You were there for several hours.”

“It’s marvelous. I’ve never seen so many books in one place.”

“Which section was it that caught your attention?”

Truth be told, it was the tax records, but I’m not going to tell him that I was helping Anduin investigate what led to his mother's death. “History.”

That makes his eyebrows go up, but he swallows whatever comment was on his tongue. “You mentioned back at the Tournament that you ride. The grooms tell me there is a sweet bay gelding in need of exercise." He grins; I wasn't able to completely hide my reaction. "May I have the pleasure of your company for an early-morning ride tomorrow?"

Immediately, my joy dies.

"If you will excuse me, my lord, I believe I will retire for the night."

I am halfway to the door before Varian's shock wears off and he calls out, "Taretha, wait!" His footsteps sound on the stone, coming right for me, but stop just short. "Please. I'm not going to stop you. Just tell me what I did wrong."

Golthak holds one hand out in a gesture to stop, but he is looking past me. Regardless, I stop. The word 'forfeit' echoes uncomfortably in my mind and lodges somewhere below my breastbone. Given his record of charging blindly into an ill-planned crusade, it is no stretch to assume that he will not give up until he has either won my heart, or I have thoroughly broken his. I am left with the unenviable choice of watching him run aground on my reefs, seeing the tides of emotion grind him into bloody ribbons against the jagged peaks, or guiding him through my treacherous waters and leading him safely to where I do not want him to be. I am very sure I do not want to encourage Varian in his foolish quest for my heart, and I'm not certain I actually want to like him, but I absolutely do not want his emotional blood on my hands.

"It has been my experience, my lord, that going riding with a gentleman only leads to the gentleman doing the riding while the horses watch." Although he is still behind me, I can almost see my frosty words strike him hard enough to make him wince. Certainly, I can hear it in his voice.

"I withdraw my invitation. If you wish to ride without me, please do so. If you are still hungry, I will leave and let you enjoy the sunset in peace."

Curse him for his chivalry. I don't want to turn around and see the vulnerability in his eyes, but not doing so would be driving a dagger into his gut knowing that he will not attempt to defend himself. Irrationally, that thought brings a rush of anger that he would so willingly allow me to hurt him, and I wrap the flames of wrath around me as protection against his gentle gaze.

"Do you forfeit this match as well, my lord?" I turn around and pin him with a challenging look. "Is this how the king of Stormwind conducts his affairs - by surrendering to the opponent? Did the gladiator Lo'gosh bow and scrape his way to victory in Dire Maul?"

Confusion, affront, pleasure, and anger all flash across his face and are replaced by a feral grin I have seen many times on orcish faces. One part pride, one part anticipation, one part determination and one part fierce joy all combine to make him look almost handsome. He holds his arm out as though it were a sword he was readying, and as I lay my fingers lightly on it I can almost hear our figurative blades ring against each other. We sweep grandly back to the table and I allow him to seat me, which he does with a bow before resuming his place across the little table.

Again, I do not taste the food that is no doubt exquisite, but this time it is because we are fencing with our words. It comes almost as a surprise to realize that night has fallen. How long have we been sitting here, trading barbs ranging from culture clashes to fashion, poetry to the quality of assorted weaponry? My train of thought stumbles to a stop, and I shiver in the chilly night air. 

"My lady?"

"Not until tomorrow, my lord," I shoot back reflexively, and shiver again.

Dismay blooms slowly on his face, only to wither beneath my disdain. "Well then, my future lady, have I acquitted myself sufficiently in your eyes for the night?"

"You have," I say loftily.

"Then I beg you, let us retire before I do something chivalrous." He smiles, inviting me to share the joke, but his eyes are serious.

The memory of his warm arm rises; I push it away and rub my fingers against my thigh as though wiping his heat from my hand. "An excellent idea, my lord."

He offers me his arm, but I ignore it. The maids from Alterac have left heated bricks in my bed, and the down comforter is a warm, gentle weight soothing me to sleep before it can sink in that I actually enjoyed bantering with the brash king of Stormwind.


	7. Advance

I never thought that I would ever have a use for the overly-elaborate blue and white gown Jaina gifted me with three Winter Veils back, but if being sworn into the nobility isn't a good time to wear it, then I am a loss as to what would be. My Alterac maids - Clara and Pauline - are happy enough to help me into it, and Pauline takes a near childlike delight in putting my hair into an intricate arrangement while Clara critically adds cosmetics to my face.

"You look like a doll," Golthak says in orcish as he and four Kor'kron Elites follow me down the hall.

The page leading the way to the throne room looks nervously over his shoulder, but says nothing.

The throne room is not what I was expecting. Instead of an imposing hall, it is an airy chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling pierced by clerestory windows that bring in sunlight to splash against the pale stone and light the room without blinding anyone; truly the work of a master architect. Royal Guard are positioned between the seven doorways that open into this circular chamber. A magnificent starburst mosaic of lighter and darker stone draws all eyes to the center of the room, where the throne perches on an octagonal dais. Through one open door, I can see a campaign table and map stand. Through another, a conference table gleams. This room is not so much a statement of ultimate power as it is a hub of activity; an expression of the idea that the king is but part of the larger machine of government, albeit a central and integral part. Knowing that nearly the entire city had been rebuilt after the Old Horde tore through it, it is also a window into a younger Varian's idealism: that a king should work _with_ his kingdom, rather than ruling absolutely.

Knowing what happened after the city was rebuilt, I feel a surprising amount of sympathy for the younger Varian.

"Taretha?"

Having learned his lesson, Varian is well outside of even the most generous definition of 'personal space'. He looks slightly concerned, and I realize that I have been staring.

"It's beautiful," I say softly, trying to ignore his relieved smile.

He offers me his arm. "We're just waiting on you, my future lady."

I cannot deny his hopeful eyes, not with the specter of his slain idealism floating in every golden mote of dust illuminated by the light from those clerestory windows. Face a blank mask, my fingers alight on his arm and I allow myself to be led into the small chapel in the room to the right of the entrance. A clerk with a portable desk sits off to one side, quill and parchment at the ready, while a man in sober black robes makes small talk with an elderly bishop, who smiles kindly at me.

"For the record, Sire," the clerk says in a reedy voice, "could you announce those present?"

"Certainly. Varian Wrynn, king of Stormwind. Taretha Foxton of the Frostwolf Clan, formerly of Durnholde. Archbishop Benedictus. Magistrate Collins. We are here to enact, bless, and witness Taretha's ascension to the nobility as Lady of Durnholde."

"At your request, your Majesty, I have investigated the title to Durnholde." The black-robed magistrate consults a paper while the clerk scribbles madly. "The title was last held by Lieutenant General Aedelas Blackmoore, reported slain in battle. With all due respect, Sire, I must protest that there is no justification for the title to pass on to anyone. Blackmoore had no living relatives; no heir, and no wife."

"Archbishop," Varian says pleasantly, "If a man remains faithful to a woman for more than two years, bringing no other into his bed and providing for her, would that constitute a faithful relationship in the eyes of the church?"

The old man's eyebrows rise. "Certainly, your Majesty."

"I must concur; the laws of Stormwind and Lordaeron are clear on the responsibilities a man has in such a situation." Magistrate Collins eyes me doubtfully, but says nothing.

"Taretha, will you swear before these exalted gentlemen that for the seven years before Blackmoore's death, he had relations with no other?"

My fingers dig subtly into Varian's arm, expressing my displeasure for the situation he has put me in, but my voice is calm and cool. "I give my word that from the moment he first took me to his bed until the moment of his death, he was faithful to me and provided for both myself and my family."

The magistrate looks about to say something, but instead presses his lips into a grim line briefly. "In that case, there is considerable weight to the idea that his title could pass on to his surviving...partner. Is this the precedent you wish to set, your Majesty?"

"It is," Varian answers firmly.

"The church smiles on the law rectifying a situation that was not addressed in life," the archbishop says mildly.

"Then it's settled. The lands and title of a man may pass to his common-born mistress if he has remained faithful to her and provided for her for a minimum of two years." Varian waits for nods all around, and for the clerk to finish writing, before he continues. "By the power granted to me by the first conclave of allied human kings, in the absence of my brother king of Lordaeron, I appoint to Taretha Foxton the title formerly held by Aedelas Blackmoore. I further declare that the lands and the privileges they grant revert to the Lordaeron Crown at the lady's request, and as such there is no need for any oaths of fealty to be sworn. Archbishop Benedictus, will you give your blessing to Taretha Foxton of the Frostwolf, Lady of Durnholde?"

The old man smiles. "Of course."

I bow my head while he chants, feeling the Light wash over me.

"Magistrate Collins, I call upon you to bear witness to this event. Do you recognize this woman?"

"I do, Sire. The woman before me is Lady Taretha Foxton of Durnholde and of the Frostwolf Clan."

The clerk finishes scribbling madly, blows on the parchment, and offers it to Varian.

"Excellent. My lady, I will have a copy of this made for you by the end of the day." He hands it back to the clerk. "In the meantime, my lady, may I have the pleasure of your company for lunch?"

My fingers dig into his arm again. "You may."

He nods to clerk, magistrate, and archbishop before leading me out. I hold my tongue until we are alone in the courtyard overlooking the city, then snatch my hand back - which does not seem to surprise him.

"I do _not_ appreciate having those seven years brought up without warning, _your Majesty,_ " I hiss, glaring at him with such heat that his head turns slightly and his eyes close. "I try my hardest to forget that period of my life, and you have made my shame a matter of public record." My fists and jaw clench in attempts to restrain the rage that has me fairly vibrating.

"If you have more to say, my lady, I beg you to not hold back." Varian opens his eyes slowly, facing me as though preparing himself for execution.

"No." The single word cracks like the impact of hand to cheek. "I know why you did it. I appreciate the weapon you have given other girls who may suffer my situation. However, I would have appreciated it more had you had the _courtesy_ and _respect_ to enlighten me as to what your little plan entailed beforehand." My breath whistles through my nose as I again attempt to rein in my anger.

The chagrin in his face nearly derails my temper entirely. "I'm sorry, Taretha. I wasn't thinking." His face flushes, scars standing out in pale glory. "I won't ask your forgiveness for this because I don't deserve it. You are absolutely correct, and I was an arrogant fool."

Abruptly he clenches his jaw and stalks over to the wall of the castle. One fist lashes out to strike the rough stone, and he grunts in pain but does not pull his hand back for a long minute. By the time he turns back around, we have both gotten our tempers under control.

"I forgive you," I verbally trample over whatever he had been about to say. "because you realize what you did wrong and I believe that you will not make that mistake again."

His expression goes from apology to shock to gratitude. "...thank you. You are indeed merciful in your victories, my lady." He sweeps me a deep and formal bow. "I beg you, keep holding me accountable when I do something stupid like this." Almost shyly, he smiles at me.

I do not smile back. "Your hand, my lord."

Confused, he holds out the hand with which he had punched the wall. I take it in both of mine, probing gently for broken bones and examining the abused skin. He doesn't seem to have scraped it badly enough to cause bleeding, although he is going to bruise. His hand is very warm and strong.

"Punching stone walls isn't very intelligent, my lord."

That distant adoration is back in his eyes at my quiet words. "I'm torn, my lady. I don't want to repeat my mistakes and lose the little bit of respect I've earned from you, but at the same time, your actions seem to be rewarding me for that act of idiocy."

Face flaming, I drop his hand.

"Taretha!" Anduin slips into the courtyard, smiling broadly. "You look beautiful. Archbishop Benedictus says you're Lady of Durnholde now...?"

"I am." It's impossible not to smile back at him.

The prince stops and gives me a deep, formal bow. "My lady."

I dip him an equally deep and formal curtsy. "Your Highness."

That impish grin flits across his face briefly before he schools his expression. "Did Father do anything stupid?" he deadpans.

"Anduin!" As much as he tries to sound shocked, Varian is struggling to hold back laughter.

"He did. Two things. However, I have faith that he will not repeat them."

"You have my word on the first, my lady. I make no promises on the second." He moves to the little table and pulls out a chair for me. "I would much rather punish myself than have anyone else suffer."

I allow him to seat me. "Just remember, my lord, that I am neither priest nor shaman. If you break your hand, I will not tend to your injury." I wait until he has seated himself, then catch his eye and give him a wicked little grin. "However, if you ask very nicely, perhaps my brother will see to your wounds."

"Heal them, or cause them?" Varian asks, eyebrows raised.

"I suspect that depends on how nicely you ask."

He inclines his head, conceding the point, and then gestures for lunch to be served.


	8. Echo

"I wish you could stay," Anduin says quietly, hand gripping mine tightly. "I know it's only been a week, but..."  he blushes. "You're a friend, Taretha. You _understand_ , and I feel like I don't have to be strong all the time, like Father is."

"You feel like you can act your age," I say quietly, squeezing his hand back.

He is quiet for a long moment, eyes scanning the restless sea. "I wish you had been Father's adviser instead of Lady Prestor. I wish you would _be_ Father's adviser. Since he came back, sometimes..." Anduin bites his lip. "...sometimes, it's like he forgets that he's not Lo'gosh anymore. That's when he does stupid stuff. When you're around, he acts more like his old self." He blushes harder. "He likes you."

I sigh. "I know he does, and I know that he can be a good man when he's not acting rashly, but neither the Alliance nor the Horde would ever stand for me taking Lady Prestor's place - even if I could stand being around him that much."

We stand in comfortable silence for several minutes before a soft sound from the door makes me turn. Varian meets my eyes for a bare instant before looking away, but that single instant sears me with the intensity of  its emotion. The echoes of despair and longing, bone-deep grief and loss, rattle me to my core. My father's severed head bore the same expression as it rolled to a stop at my feet.

Until just now, despite the evidence present in Anduin, it had not sunk in that Tiffin Wrynn had been blonde.

How long had Varian been standing there, watching the tableau of boy and woman, the specter of a happy family forever denied him? My heart weeps for him, and guilt that I'm not the woman he wishes I were worries at me. Hard on its heels, however, is panic. I was forced into a mold once before in order to keep a brute in check. I will not allow myself to be so used a second time.

"The _Mercy's Vengeance_ is ready, my lady," Varian says quietly. "May I escort you to the dock?"

"Thank you, my lord." I do my best to ignore the dignified defeat in his tone, and I do not meet his eyes.

He seems to be just as painfully aware of the strangely tense air between us, and instead of offering me his arm, he takes Anduin's other hand. This only strengthens the ghost of the family that could have been, and even Anduin feels it to judge by how tightly he holds my hand and how subdued he is as we walk. When we reach the dock where _Mercy's Vengeance_ is moored, he lets go easily enough, but his eyes beg me to stay. I go to one knee and hug him, slightly surprised by how much I don't want to let go.

I wonder how badly it would scandalize the Horde and the Alliance if I suggested he visit Orgrimmar.

With more than a little trepidation, I stand and meet his father's eyes, but gentle regret is all that greets me there.

"Anduin," he says steadily, "could you tell the captain that his guest has arrived?"

Anduin takes the hint and vanishes into the ship.

"I wish you could stay, too," Varian's voice is low and husky. "If you could stand being around me that much."

Panic makes my blood turn to ice and slams my gaze into an chilling glare. "I am not Tiffin, my lord." The words are a quiet hiss.

He smiles, but it does not hide the fact that I have just verbally kicked him in the essentials. "I was afraid for a minute that you were going soft on me, my lady. I'm glad to see this is not the case." He bows as footsteps on the deck indicate Anduin's return. "Go with honor, Taretha."

I dip him as low a curtsy as I can manage, face still an icy mask. "Thank you for your hospitality, your Majesty."

===============

Jaina oversees the loading of her zeppelin, but when it leaves, Golthak and I are not on it. A portal conveys us straight to my room in Grommash Hold, and my faithful shadow rounds up two Kor'kron to guard my door while he reports to my brother. A conjured fire and refreshments later, Jaina and I are busy discussing the king of Stormwind.

"That might have been a bit harsh, Tari," she says when I have finished relaying my story. "But he probably needed to hear it." She takes a sip of her tea.

"What are you not saying, Jaina?"

She looks at me apologetically. "I think you may have only encouraged him more."

Thrall peers around the door to find me holding my head in both hands, groaning. "Tari?"

I hold one hand out and he takes it gently as he settles next to us on the floor. "Jaina thinks I encouraged Varian more."

"My mother turned my father down," he rumbles, "and that only made him more determined to have her. If Varian is not discouraged by the sharp thorns protecting the flower, is that bravery a character trait to discourage?"

"I just wish he would pick a different flower."

Thrall laughs and envelops me in a one-armed hug. "You have to admit, he has excellent taste. The only woman better than my big sister is...shall we say...unavailable?"

Jaina chuckles. "I'd almost want to see him try, but it's too amusing watching him chase Tari. That, and it wouldn't be a fair fight. You'd flatten him."

"I would not." My brother looks mildly offended. "I'd hold him gently in the air with one hand until he gave up."

I laugh, finally relaxing in the company of my two best friends, but I can't quite forget the brief glimpse of pain in Varian's eyes.


End file.
